I'm trying to write how I speak

but looking to the sky has no sound.

Half eaten breath

sliding across my tongue like a piece of candy.

After years of sewing sentences together, trying to accelerate my youth

you have offered me a new language,

with hope that there is an end at the end, and it will be glorious.

If I ever believe these things you proclaim

I will put the pen down for good;

Nothing more to say, to discover, to spell.


But I do, I do want to write.


Each day that passes, picked, ripe, then rotten,

I conjure up the courage to just kneel and listen to the words.

I shake my memory box

and you survive, you rise to the top each time.

After this thought, there you are, and after this thought...


A particular one, that has caused much disruption

is that

if I ever become someone else,

with pain that isn't mine,

with a different tongue, with different breath

you will still remain the greatest moment of my life.

You hold the last word I will every say,

and somewhere along this life I will receive it,

whispered into a pillow and placed under my head

and as luck would have it, I am unattractively curious about what it is...


Until then,

I try to write how I speak